THE AIR LINE INTO TROUBLE.
Motor Matt had the Wells County country firmly fixed in his mind. He
had never been over it, but he had studied the map and secured a fairly
good theoretical knowledge. Sykestown was at the end of the branch
road, the railroads east and west, and north and south, forming a right
angle with respect to Fort Totten. Carrington, the junction point, was
at the corner of the angle.
By using the aëroplane, Matt believed he could fly straight across the
gap between Fort Totten and Sykestown, giving Carrington a wide berth.
There were some hills, but what were hills and roads to him while in
the air? Rough country would bother the automobile--it could not affect
the aëroplane.
Aëroplanes, Matt had gathered from his reading on the subject, were
peculiar in this, that no two machines ever conduct themselves exactly
the same in flight. A pair of "flyers" may be built exactly on the
same model, with all dimensions and power equipment identical, and yet
the moment they leave earth and launch themselves into the blue each
develops eccentricities peculiar to itself. In a great measure, every
machine has to be "learned."
This was the one point that bothered Matt. Would the new aëroplane be
easy or difficult to learn? If difficult, he might have to make a few
trial flights at Camp Traquair before setting off for Sykestown.
Morning dawned propitiously. The sun was bright, the day cloudless, and
only a breath of air stirring.
While the boys were at breakfast, Cameron came chugging into camp
with a powerful touring car--a six-cylinder, sixty horse, so trim and
"classy"-looking that Matt had to smother a fierce desire to drop into
the driver's seat and change his plans.
Soldiers, under Sergeant O'Hara, were to strip the camp while the boys
were away, removing everything to the post.
In building the aëroplane, Matt had made a number of departures from
Traquair's original designs. One of these was the equipping of the
flying machine with two gasoline tanks instead of one, the supply of
fuel being taken from either at will.
With tanks full and oil chambers brimming, McGlory and Cameron pushed
the aëroplane into the road. Just before Matt took his seat the
lieutenant tried to force upon him a loaded six-shooter.
Matt waved it away with a laugh. "I'd rather trust to my heels,
Cameron," he said, "than to one of those things."
"But you might need it," insisted Cameron.
"Couldn't use it if I did. When a fellow's up in an aëroplane both
hands are occupied."
"We'll keep up with you, pard," said McGlory.
"I don't think you will, Joe, if everything works as I hope and expect.
I'm going in an air line, while you fellows will have to follow the
road. Where'll we meet in case we get separated?"
"Sykestown, to-morrow morning," suggested Cameron.
"All right," Matt answered as he took his seat on the lower plane and
swung his feet to the foot rest. "Don't run with her to give her a
start--let's see if I can't get her off without any help."
McGlory, Cameron, and Ping drew away and watched. The motor began to
pop, and then to settle into a steady hum. A pull at a lever sent the
power into the bicycle wheels. The aëroplane leaped off along the
hard road, gradually increasing its speed as the air under the wings
continued to lighten the weight on the wheels. At a distance of a
hundred feet the aëroplane soared into the air, under perfect control.
Those on the ground, as well as the soldiers engaged in stripping the
camp, gave three hearty cheers.
"Hoop-a-la!" chattered Ping. "Him plenty fine Cloud Joss."
"Matt's aëroplane is a better one than that of Traquair's--it flies
steadier," averred Cameron, enthusiastically.
"Speak to me about this!" muttered the cowboy, his eyes on the great
white machine as it swooped upward and onward toward the west. "Let's
dig out, pards," he added, suddenly starting toward the automobile.
"We've got to put in some mighty good licks if we keep up with
Mile-a-minute Matt."
Ping had already thrown a bag of rations into the tonneau of the motor
car, and Cameron sprang around in front and began cranking. Just as the
engine took up its cycle, and Cameron was starting to take his seat at
the steering wheel, McGlory called his attention to a trooper who was
galloping down from the direction of the post trader's.
"What do you suppose that swatty is after, Cameron?" the cowboy asked.
"He's coming this way just a-smoking, and look how he's waving his
arms. Something's up."
"We've got to wait for him," growled the lieutenant, "and that means we
lose a couple of minutes. And we haven't got many minutes to waste,"
he added, with a look at the swiftly diminishing white speck in the
western sky.
"Telegram for Motor Matt, leftenant," cried the trooper, reining in his
horse and jerking a yellow envelope from his belt.
"You're too late, Latham," said Cameron. "Motor Matt's swinging against
the sky, a mile away."
"The operator says it's important," insisted Latham.
"I hate to tamper with Pard Matt's telegrams," remarked McGlory, "but I
reckon I'd better read this one. What do you say, Cameron?"
"Read it--and be quick. I'll start, as I don't think there'll be any
answer to send back. Anyhow, if there should be an answer we'll forward
it from Minnewaukon."
The fretting motor had its power thrown into the wheels. As it glided
away at steadily increasing speed, McGlory tore the end off the
envelope and drew out the inclosed sheet. The next moment he gave a
wild yell.
The cowboy was on the seat beside Cameron, and the latter caught his
breath and gave him an amazed sidelong look. McGlory's face had gone
white under its tan and he had slumped back in his seat.
"What in Sam Hill is the matter, McGlory?" cried Cameron.
The cowboy jerked himself together and leaned toward the lieutenant.
"Overhaul the flyin' machine!" he shouted hoarsely. "You've got to! If
we don't get a word with Matt something's sure going to happen to him."
"How's that?" asked the startled Cameron.
Ping, catching the general alarm, leaned over the back of the seat.
"Telle pidgin!" he implored. "What tleleglam say, huh?"
"It's from Mrs. Traquair," replied McGlory.
"From Mrs. Traquair?" echoed Cameron. "Then she's got away from
Murgatroyd and his rascally hirelings."
"Got away from 'em?" bellowed McGlory. "Why, they never had her at
that homestead! The whole blooming business is a frame-up, just as I
thought, all along. Murgatroyd and Siwash Charley are trying to play
even with Matt. Hit her up, can't you, Cameron? For Heaven's sake, let
her out! If you don't Matt will get away from us and drop right into
the hands of those scheming scoundrels."
Cameron pushed the automobile for all it was worth. The ground raced
out from under the flying wheels. The road was like asphalt, and the
speedometer indicator ran up and up until it pointed to fifty miles an
hour.
"Do better than that!" cried McGlory, his wild eyes on the white speck
in the sky. "You've got to do better than that, Cameron. Matt said he
could do sixty miles. If you can't equal that, Murg and his men will
beat us out."
Cameron had sixty horses under the touch of his fingers, but there was
nothing he could do to send the automobile at a faster gait.
"Where did the telegram come from?" he shouted, bending over the wheel
and watching the road as it rushed toward the swaying car.
"From Jamestown," yelled McGlory.
They had to talk at the top of their voices in order to make themselves
heard in the wind of their flight.
"What does it say?"
"It says that Mrs. Traquair has been making a little visit with
friends in Fargo; that she has just got back and found Matt's
telegram; and that she is well. That proves that this whole game is a
trap--Hackberry, Hackberry's letters, and all. Oh, sufferin' tinhorns!
I'm crazy to fight, crazy to do something to stop Matt and to put a
crimp in in that gang of sharks and double-dyed villains. Can't you do
any better than this, Cameron?"
Cameron was doing all that he possibly could. The aëroplane was a mere
speck against the blue of the sky, steadily increasing the distance
that separated it from the racing automobile.
"We no ketchee!" panted Ping. "By Klismus, Motol Matt all same eagle
bird. Woosh! No ketchee!"
"The Chink's got it right, McGlory," cried Cameron. "Unless something
happens to the aëroplane we'll never overhaul it. Matt's gaining on us
right along."
"And all we can do is to watch and let him gain," fumed the cowboy. "I
feel like I did, once, when I was tied hand and foot and gagged while a
gang of roughs were setting fire to a boathouse in which Pard Matt lay
asleep. Oh, speak to me about this!"
Then, all at once, the motor went wrong, and the car lost speed until
it came to a dead stop. McGlory groaned.
"Of course this had to happen," he stormed. "If you're ever in a hurry
something is bound to go wrong with these blooming chug carts. We're
out of the race, Cameron. Take your time, take your time. Hang the
confounded luck, anyway."
Cameron got down and went feverishly to work locating the trouble. Ping
tumbled out of the tonneau and fluttered around, dancing up and down in
his excitement and anxiety.
McGlory did not get out of his seat. Gloomily he kept his eyes on the
fading speck in the heavens until he could see it no more.
"It's out of sight," he muttered heavily.
"The aëroplane?" asked Cameron, fumbling with the sparking apparatus.
"What else do you think I mean?" snapped the cowboy, in his worst
humor. "Matt's done for, and all we can do is sit here and let him rush
on at the rate of a mile a minute straight into the trap that has been
set for him. Sufferin' snakes! Did you ever run into anything like this
before?"